


In a Crowd of Thousands

by theskyefalls (emmathecharming)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fitzsimmons AU, Historical AU, and since it's an anastasia au there are references to the romanoff family's murders, takes place in russia and paris in the 1920s, that means there are some vague references to the communist culture of the time, thefitzsimmonsnetwork's rom com au challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmathecharming/pseuds/theskyefalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A FitzSimmons Anastasia Au.<br/>Jemma is an orphan who knows nothing of her life before coming to an orphanage in rural Russia. She has no idea who she really is or where she comes from. Leopold Fitz lives in St. Petersburg, well squats really. He hasn't had a home since before the revolution. He has lived on his own, making his own way for as long as he can remember. His latest money-making scheme? Finding the long lost princess Jennifer, the last royal left after the violence of the revolution, or at least that's what the rumors say. What will happen when they meet? Will she agree to play a part in his scheme? Could they even succeed if she does? The world is anxious to see if this girl is the real deal or nothing more than an impostor hoping to get her hands on the royal family fortune by lying to the lost princess's only surviving relative, her grandmother the Dowager Empress Maria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Rumor in St. Petersburg

**Author's Note:**

> While the 1997 cartoon was my main inspiration for this au, I did draw a lot from the new Broadway-bound musical adaptation of the movie as well since it was based more in the historical reality of the time period and I wanted to give fans of the movie something a little bit different than what they were expecting. So if you were looking for an undead Rasputin, that would be why you don't find him. Sorry to those of you that were looking for something just like the movie but I hope you like this as well :) There were just a few scenes where I borrowed some dialogue from the movie or musical simply because the lines were too perfect to not have them be said by these versions of the characters. Obviously, I did not write those. And for those of you who are normal and do not know as much about Russian history as I do, I hope I wrote all of it in a way that's easy for you to follow.  
> The musical is also where I got the inspiration for the title of this fic. I could have just used the title of the movie but that would have left me with simply Jemma and that is neither particularly interesting or informative.  
> I highly suggest that anyone who enjoys the movie check out the musical as well as it is just fabulous!

Jemma steps outside and looks at the world around her, so different from the one behind her, from the way this piece of the world felt even just the week before. This world is now her’s; she can go where she pleases and do as she wishes, so different from the world she is leaving. Behind her is the decrepit orphanage where she has spent the last ten years of her life and before her, she sees the rural, snow-covered corner of Russia she’s seen through the gates for so long. Only now, the bars are no longer in her path; she can leave, go as far as she wants. The path to the left will take her to the small village nearby, the path to the right leads to St. Petersburg.

Jemma stands frozen just outside the gate, her lack of motion not caused by the still falling snow but instead by indecision.  _ Do I just stay here where I’m safe or do I actually go out there and try,  _ she thinks, reaching down for the charm hanging from the chain around her neck.

_ Together in Paris _ . The inscription was one that she knew well. The necklace was the only thing the staff at the orphanage had found with her as a child. It was her only connection to a past she could not remember, to the family she had lost. It was the only clue she had to lead her to whatever chance she has to find her place in the world.

Finally, Jemma squares her shoulders and huffs out a sigh as she bolsters a small bit of courage. 

“I can’t hide in the country forever if I want to find out what  _ this _ is.” She tucks the necklace safely beneath her coat and pulls her scarf tight around her neck. She turns to the right, toward St. Petersburg, and meekly takes the first step down the path. She pauses, just briefly, before starting properly down the road.

-/-

Leopold Fitz walks down a city side street, doing his best to avoid the attention of those around him. He looks up at the sky, gray and cloudy as usual. St. Petersburg has never been a particularly warm and sunny place to live but somehow, he thinks, it seems to have become even gloomier of late. The skies are full of clouds and the streets of the city have grown full of people with no other place to go.

He looks to the other end of the alley, the people of the neighborhood have formed yet another long line hoping for a small scrap of stale bread. It is the normal state of things now, people begging in the streets, homes abandoned as mortgages sit unpaid. He considers joining them for a moment, his own empty stomach rumbling, but he knows what happens to those in that line; they get sent home empty handed.

And so he walks on, back toward the abandoned Yusupov palace- his latest accommodation- his head hung low against the wind. He walks through a larger crowd as he reaches the courtyard near the palace. The people there huddle in small factions, whispering quietly between themselves so as not to be heard. He doesn’t have to hear any of their words to know what they are saying, he already knows every variation of the rumors.

Money talks in Russia now and this particular rumor is backed by a lot of it. Everyone knows the reward is a futile attempt to push away reality and yet those same people desperately want it to succeed. He looks up to see yet another flyer advertising the reward posted on the lamppost across the street.

**_10 Million Rubles for Anyone Who Can Help Find the Missing Princess Jennifer Simmons_ **

Fitz stops and stares at the poster, its bold red words and the small picture of the beautiful princess at eight years old, one of the last pictures of her that was taken. He looks at her shy smile, the light in her eyes shining through the waterfall of red-brown hair he remembered always being in her face just as it is in the picture.

He is startled when a man steps between him and the flyer before abruptly ripping it from where it hangs. He watches as the man tears the paper to shreds before moving up the steps of the largest building on the outside of the square. The man is obviously a soldier, his clothes are simple and undecorated but they are clean and new.

“Attention comrades,” the man shouts from the top step. “Attention!” Few people pay him any attention, the war is over now and daily life is all that matters. Fitz can see frustration growing in the man’s eyes as he braces his shoulders before speaking again.

“I believe I asked for your attention,  _ comrades. _ ” His voice is sharper this time, filled with the authority he has attributed himself. “My name is Grant Ward and I have an important announcement from the new government. You are no longer citizens of St. Petersburg. From now on, this city will be known as Leningrad.”

The announcement is met with little response. No one claps, no one cheers, no one even gets angry. Fitz watches as the soldier lets out a breath and allows his shoulders to slump - the only reaction from the crowd is more whispering.

“They can call it whatever they want to but it won’t matter. It will always be St. Petersburg. New name, same place,” Fitz mumbles to himself as he pulls his coat up higher to block out the ever colder wind.

“You know I could have him arrest you for that?” an older woman he hadn’t noticed beside him says softly.

“But you won’t,” Fitz replies, putting on his most charming smile. The woman simply rolls her eyes as they both move on.

Up ahead Fitz spies the one person he has remained close to in the aftermath of the revolution, the only person he trusts enough to let in on the latest plan he has brewing. Lance Hunter. Fitz sees that he has already begun their daily routine without him. Fitz walks up beside Hunter and his eyes catch on the item that his partner had been admiring, a small but ornate music box. He clues in and makes the first move of their usual game.

“Come on, Hunter. This stall isn’t worth our time,” Fitz says louder than is necessary while gesturing to the market stall before them. Fitz can see in the desperate salesman’s eyes that their plot is already working.

It happens this way every day. They go to the market here in the courtyard, each and every stall filled with goods stolen from the various palaces that had been owned by the now disposed aristocracy. They split up and when one of them finds something they think could be of use, the other enters and they work together to get the price down. It is usually an easily accomplished goal as nearly everyone in Russia is now desperate for any money they can get.

“You know? I think you’re right, Fitz old boy. I heard Olga found something particularly interesting last night. Perhaps we should go and check it out.” Hunter turns to Fitz and winks quickly before they begin to make their way to another stall.

“Wait!” they hear from behind them. 

They pause, they know turning back too quickly would give them away. But they do turn back after a moment and they are greeted with just the sight they wanted to see: the salesman has picked up the music box and they can see his desperation in his eyes.

“What do you say we make it a ruble for the music box?” he sighs.

Fitz looks at Hunter, whispering behind his hand as if they do not already know what they will do, before responding.

“I say you have a deal, sir.”


	2. Chapter 1: In My Dreams

Jemma reaches yet another fork in the road, she has lost count of how many she has seen in the weeks she has been traveling. This one is different though, it is the first that does not point her closer to St. Petersburg, the only sign in sight too faded to read. She stops, unsure what to do or which way to go now. She looks around her at the nearly barren countryside, much like that she has seen along every path she has taken so far. Her once squared shoulders sink as she realizes she cannot find any clues to direct her next move.

Finally, as she completes her analysis of her surroundings, she finds a bit of hope. There is a hill nearby.

“I bet if I climb that I can at least see something that will be more helpful than that stupid sign,” she whispers to herself. “But I’d better move quick,” she continues looking up at the darkening sky. “I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

Jemma pushes her tired feet forward one after the other, just as she’s done for days, slowly making it to the top of the hill. She doubles over as she reaches the top, her lengthy journey to this point finally overtaking her. She takes several deep breaths like that, bent looking at her feet, before she finally resolves to pull her head back up. When she does, she can’t help the smile that forms on her face.

Just beyond the hill she stands atop, she can see what she knows in her heart is St. Petersburg. She can see everything she had heard so much about from others in the orphanage, the towers, the spires, the grand palaces. She can see it all and as she stands there staring at it, she can feel her heart grow lighter. 

She quickly makes a note of the road she will need to take when she returns to the bottom of the hill before making her way, skipping more than walking, down towards it.

\---

It takes Jemma a few more hours to reach the edge of the city. When she finally reaches the first streets of St. Petersburg, the darkening of the sky is no longer caused by clouds but by the soon coming night.

She walks through the narrow streets at the edge of the city slowly, unsure where to go or who to trust to help her get there. She will need a way out of the country., something she knows will not be easy. The nurses at the orphanage had given her two rubles when she left to help her get on her feet, an act that was clearly a hardship, but that had not lasted long. She had made it the rest of the way doing odd jobs for food whenever she could and stealing it when she couldn’t find work. It was not an easy trip.

Jemma jumps when she hears a loud bang from the other side of the street; it’s not a new reflex but it’s one that she can’t explain. Ever since she can remember, she has reacted this way to any loud noises. She had worried the nurses when soon after she came to live at the orphanage, she had woken all of the other children with her screams resulting from a metal bowl being dropped in the kitchen next to the bedroom she was in. They told her it would get better with time. It didn’t.

She moves to the side of the street, away from the offending truck, and leans against a building to catch her breath. A moment later, she looks up to see an older woman staring at her. This is nothing new for her either. Nobody ever understands this reaction, she’s grown to accept the confused or even worried stares from strangers just as much as she has accepted the fact that she will react like this forever.

Jemma puts on a fake smile, it is small but it works to put the other woman more at ease enough for her to quickly smile back.

“Excuse me,” Jemma blurts, catching the other woman by surprise. “How do I get to the train station?” she continues more softly. 

The woman does not reply straight away, studying Jemma instead. She curls into herself under the woman’s harsh gaze.

“That way,” the woman huffs, pointing across the nearby square before quickly heading in the opposite direction.

Jemma braces herself before turning in the direction the other woman had pointed. She cannot help but to let her heart sink a little when she hears a quiet “Good luck, you stupid girl” from behind her. Nonetheless, Jemma continues across the busy city square, weaving through the groups of people and various stalls peddling small trinkets and artifacts. On the other side of the square, Jemma finally spies the small sign marking the entrance to the train station and she makes her way inside.

The room she finds is even more crowded than the square she left behind, people in half a dozen long lines pushing each other to get ahead. Each line looks the same so Jemma simply steps to the back of the closest one. 

The wait is long, Jemma watches as the light coming through the small windows grows constantly more dim as she slowly moves closer and closer to the ticket window.

When her turn finally comes to face the man behind the window, she looks up and takes a deep breath before speaking.

“Can you tell me how much it would cost to take the train to Paris?” she asks quietly, looking up at the man.

“I need to see your exit papers,” he replies gruffly.

“Exit papers? Simply to tell me the price of a ticket?”

“No exit papers, no chance of leaving,” the man practically yells at her. “Next!” 

Jemma tries to ask him another question but the woman behind her has already pushed her way to the window.

“Psst.”

Jemma looks around for the source of the sound. The people around her are all avoiding eye contact, keeping their heads down. It takes a moment but Jemma’s eyes finally settle on a woman leaving the line next to her.

“Meet me outside,” is the only explanation the woman gives before pushing toward the door leaving Jemma to stare confused at the spot where she had been standing. She takes a few breaths to clear her head before following the woman out of the station.

As soon as Jemma steps outside, she feels someone grab her arm and pull her to the edge of the square.

“You need to talk to Fitz,” the woman says before Jemma can turn around and focus on her.

“What?” Jemma whispers, catching her breath.

“Fitz,” the woman repeats. “If anyone can get you exit papers, it’s him.”

“But where can I find him?” Jemma asks, taking a step closer to the woman and lowering her voice further.

“He’s been known to hang around the old Yusupov palace. That’s all I know,” the woman rushes, already turning to cross the square.

“Thank you!” Jemma calls quietly behind her.

“You didn’t hear it from me!” the woman rasps over her shoulder before weaving out of sight among the crowd.

Jemma stares after the woman before looking around her to begin finding her way to the Yusupov palace.

-/-

Fitz stares up at the woman standing on the stage of the now abandoned theater in the Yusupov palace. She is the fourth woman Hunter and he have seen since they started their search for the necessary third partner to complete their team for this new scheme.

They had decided to go bigger than they had ever gone with a scheme before. They were going to find the missing Princess Jennifer Simmons- or at least make everyone believe they had. They already had most of what they would need- the music box they could pass off as her’s and an audience that would want to believe them- now all they need is their princess.

But that was proving harder than they had hoped. They only way they could advertise their casting call of sorts was through word of mouth and that had yielded very few results so far- four girls had auditioned and all four of them had fallen short. Two of them had looked nothing like the princess should, the third had been so shy he wasn’t even sure she wanted to be there, and this girl was just an all around disaster. They didn’t stand a chance.

“Try it without the gum in your mouth this time.” Hunter’s voice pulls him from his thoughts back to the scene before him. 

“It's not gum; it's tobacco!” the girl calls from the stage in an accent he can't quite place. 

Fitz sighs and, hearing that Hunter has just done the same, rests his face in his hand to hide the look of shock he is certain it holds. 

“Just bow and tell the Dowager Empress who you are,” Hunter sighs, his shoulders tense to keep his disappointment from showing.

“Bow and talk at the same time?” the girl asks, her accent even more shrill than before. 

“I believe it’s been done before,” Hunter sighs.

This exchange pulls Fitz’s heart even lower. He begins to daydream again as the woman vainly continues to try and impress Hunter. He thinks of what their lives will be like after this scheme is done, no more bread lines or nights spent lying in his makeshift bed hungry, no more nights spent on the streets to avoid their hideouts being discovered, no more Russia. Maybe he'll stay in Paris when all is said and done. Who knows? They'll be able to do whatever they want. 

Fitz jumps slightly when he hears Hunter’s voice again, much quieter this time. He turns and stares at his partner silently not having heard a word of what he said. 

“Are there any more girls after this one?” he repeats. 

“Sadly… no,” Fitz sighs. 

“I'm not that sad,” Hunter replies with a laugh before turning his attention back to the girl on the stage. 

“Thank you ladies!” he says loudly, his eyes flitting to the girls sitting in front of them as well. “We have to talk it all over before we can share our final choice.”

“That's theater talk for no,” Fitz hears one of the girls say as they all begin to make their way out of the theater. 

“Well the girl isn’t wrong,” Hunter laughs. “I don’t think any of them are going to do.”

Fitz doesn’t reply, his attention diverted once again. He reaches into his pocket searching for a scrap of paper but instead pulls out the music box they had purchased a few days earlier. 

“Are you still fiddling with that?” Hunter exclaims, his tone making it more like an accusation than a question. “You’re going to break it.”

“I still can’t get it to open,” Fitz muses, staring at the small box as he turns it over in his hands.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s a fake?”

“How can you be so sure?” Fitz shoots back at him.

“No one spots a fake like Lance Hunter, the biggest fake of them all!” This declaration elicits a soft laugh from both men.

“I still don’t know why they let you stay in court,” Fitz teases.

“We may never know, my friend,” Hunter replies.

As he finishes speaking, there is a loud knock at the door in the back of the theater, causing both men to jump at the sound. 

“I knew it! One of those women ratted on us!” Fitz yells as he quickly ducks between the rows of chairs, he is well known to the police after all.

“At least they’ll feed us in jail!” Hunter cries as Fitz loses sight of him.

“I’m looking for Fitz.” The voice now echoing through the theater is female, clearly not police, but Fitz remains still.

“So are the police,” Fitz hears Hunter mock in reply. “He’s the one there with his head coming up from behind that row of seats.”

Fitz sighs.  _ So much for that. _ He slowly pushes himself to his feet and begins to scan the back of the room for their new arrival.

Finally he sees her. Standing against the back wall is a girl, she is small but she looks strong nonetheless. From her voice, Fitz had expected her to appear confident but instead the girl looks scared, he thinks, lost.

“Yeah, I’m Fitz,” he says as he meets her eyes.

“I need exit papers.” Her voice is determined but Fitz can see her resolve faltering in her eyes.

“I can’t help you,” Fitz admits and, though he can’t explain why, he feels a pull on his heart when her shoulders fall at the news.

“But I was told you’re the only one who can help me.”

“Look… exit papers cost a lot,” Fitz huffs. He needs her to leave them alone so they can get back to work.

“I have a little money left,” she pushes, quickly making her way towards them. 

“Red papers cost  _ a lot _ .” He’s getting frustrated at this point.

“I still have a little money and I just got a job as a street sweeper,” she rushes as she continues approaching Fitz. “I used to be a cook in Odessa. I’m a hard worker, I’ll be able to pay in no time.”

“Odessa? That’s a long way from here.” He was right; she is tough. “What are you running away from?” 

She stops walking at his question; he realizes that must be one of the weak spots in her armor. 

“I’m not running away from anything,” she says slowly. “I’m running  _ to _ someone. I don’t know who they are, but they’re in Paris.”

Fitz cannot contain the mocking laugh that bubbles up at her admission. “She has no money  _ and _ she’s crazy!” Fitz says, snapping his head to look at Hunter.

“I’m not crazy!” the girl retorts, taking a strong step forward and squaring her shoulders. “Will you help me?” The question is softer, less sure.

“You don’t need us to get to Paris. Just find the nearest canal and you can swim there.” He doesn’t want to be this rude but he knows this would be a waste of time for both of them and he needs to get back to work.

“Why are you so unpleasant?” she asks.  _ Because I want to scare you away,  _ he thinks.

“He was hoping you would be someone else,” Hunter interjects, stepping between them.

“Who?” she asks, keeping her eyes locked on Fitz’s.

“Someone who may not even exist…” Hunter sighs.

The girl rolls her eyes before looking around the room. As she does, her eyes linger on several of the more unique decorations adorning the walls and stage, studying them. She stares at the stage itself for a few moments before speaking again.

“I feel like I’ve been in this room before…” she whispers slowly, still staring at the stage.

“Oh what now?” Fitz says at the same time that Hunter asks her when she ate last. She doesn’t seem to hear either of them.

“There was a play…” she continues, her eyes becoming unfocused, no longer studying the space around her but instead seeming to step into her memories. “Everyone was dressed so beautifully…”

“This  _ was _ the private theater when the palace still belonged to Count Yusupov,” Hunter says, stepping closer to the girl.

“Everyone was so kind to us even though we were the only children there.”

“Where are your manners, Fitz? Get the poor girl some water,” Hunter instructs. “And a piece of cheese. The poor girl is clearly starved.”

“This isn't a soup kitchen, Hunter,” Fitz complains even as he follows the other man’s directions. 

“ _ You _ seem to be a gentleman even if your friend is not,” he hears the girl say from behind him. 

“Gentleman,” Hunter laughs. “That's a word I haven't heard in a long time.” He pauses a moment before continuing. “Life has not been easy for Fitz,” Fitz hears Hunter whisper as he makes his way towards them again. 

“It has not been easy for anyone,” the girl asserts, allowing Fitz to once again glimpse the strength hiding inside. He hands her the little bits of food without a word.

“Thank you,” she replies softly nonetheless as their eyes meet.

“Fitz!” He looks up at Hunter’s rather loud whisper to see his partner motioning for him to come closer. He obliges, the look on his partner’s face worrying him slightly.

“What do you think of this one?” Hunter asks quietly, pointing at the girl.

“What, her?” Fitz exclaims, leaning against the row of seats behind them.

“Can’t you see the resemblance?” Hunter asks quietly before addressing their guest again. “What’s your name, girl?”

She is clearly startled by the question, simply staring at the floor a few moments before finally answering.

“I don’t know,” she replies, barely louder than a whisper.

“You don’t know?” Fitz can’t help the incredulous tone his words have when they shoot out of his mouth.

“They gave me a name at the hospital, Jemma, but I don’t remember my real name, or anything else before the orphanage I suppose. They told me I had amnesia; there was nothing they could do.”

“You don’t remember anything?” Hunter asks and Fitz can see him fighting back a mischievous smile.

“I remember coming to the hospital… and the story of how they found me. But everything before that just comes in flashes…” She trails off, once again staring past them. “Flashes of… flashes of fire and screams that echo through my mind…” She stops to take a deep breath, seeming to fight off the memories she cannot quite piece together. “They told me they found me in the snow surrounded by tracks… That’s all I know for certain of my life before the hospital.” She clutches the nearly empty glass tightly to her chest, her hands gripping it as if it is the only thing holding her there as she continues to stare through them. Fitz notices that despite her strong grip on the glass, most the girl’s- of Jemma’s- body is shaking.

He feels as though he should say something to her, she has revealed more than they could have expected after all, but he is struck by her story. What could he say to someone who has spent their life even more lost than himself?

“But sometimes…” Jemma finally says, pulling Fitz from his thoughts. “In my dreams, I see more, feel more… I see visions of a beautiful bridge in an equally stunning city. There’s a square by the river and I can hear a voice- it’s so filled with love- and they keep saying that they will meet me there. And for some reason…” She takes another deep breath. “I just know that whoever that person is, they’re in Paris and they’re waiting for me. I won’t give up- I can’t give up- until I get there and I figure out who I am.”

“That’s what you’re going on? Dreams?” Hunter’s voice is sharp, too sharp.

“Not just my dreams,” Jemma asserts, placing the glass on the arm of one of the seats beside her. “I have this too.” Jemma reaches beneath her coat and pulls out a small necklace.

Fitz studies both Jemma and the necklace.

“There’s definitely a resemblance, Fitz,” Hunter says when Jemma is done with her story. He studies her a moment, her hair is the same red-brown as the princess’ and her eyes hold the same fire. This could certainly work.

“Have you heard the rumors about the Princess Jennifer?” Fitz says softly, stepping toward Jemma and locking his eyes on hers.

“Everyone has,” she sighs in return. “But that’s all they are, aren’t they…?” She keeps her eyes locked on his, the fire deepening inside them.

“You know? We may be able to help you after all, Jemma,” Fitz smiles, his words eliciting a matching smile from the girl in front of him.

“But I thought you said you couldn’t help…” Jemma replies, her smile fading slightly as it is replaced with a look of confusion.

“That was before my partner here decided that you could help us in return.” Fitz watches Jemma’s face to gauge her reaction. Hey eyes narrow, studying him, trying to figure out where his thoughts are leading him.

“Well…” Fitz begins. “You’ve heard that the Dowager Empress has offered a- is looking for her missing granddaughter. And we think that maybe you-”

“Maybe I’m her?” Jemma interrupts sharply, closing the already small space between them.

“Who’s to say you’re not?” Fitz proposes. “You don’t remember what happened to you, know one knows what happened to her.” Jemma pushes past him and begins to make her way towards the door.

“You’re looking for family in Paris and her only remaining family is in Paris,” Hunter adds, stepping into her path.

“Oh come on!” Jemma cries, attempting to step around Hunter.

“What? You never dreamed of being a princess?” Fitz questions, his words coming out more like an accusation than he had planned for them to.

“Well sure… but never that I could actually  _ be _ one.”

“Think of this as your chance to change that,” Fitz says, his smile slowly returning.

“So are you ready to become a princess?” Hunter asks hopefully.

Jemma hesitates, her eyes flitting between the two men, studying them.

“I’m ready to find out who I am,” she finally says confidently. “But I’m not going to lie to do it.”

Fitz looks over at Hunter. They both know this wasn’t quite the reaction they had been hoping for. But Fitz also knows that it’s probably the best shot they have. Fitz sighs when after a moment, Hunter smiles. 

“Let’s do this!” Hunter exclaims and even though in his head, Fitz knows he should be relieved that they’ve finally found their princess, he can feel his body tense at the thought of everything they have ahead of them, him, Hunter, and… her.


	3. Chapter 2: Once Upon a December

“So how do you expect me to become someone I don’t even remember being- don’t even know that I was?” Jemma stares down at Fitz and Hunter from her place on the stage. Despite standing in front of them back in the old theater, she still cannot believe that the events of the day before had not been some bizarre dream, that she had actually agreed to be a part of their crazy scheme.

“We’re going to help you learn everything you’ll need to know,” Fitz says as he ascends the small set of stairs leading from the floor of the theater to the stage.

“Exactly,” Hunter exclaims as he follows behind Fitz. “I spent some time in court,” he states matter-of-factly before continuing, his voice shaking a bit more. “Before they kicked me out, of course.”

“Kicked you out…?” Jemma whispers nervously.

“Don’t worry, Jemma,” Fitz says placing his hand on her shoulder before suddenly jerking it back. “Hunter here isn’t the only one who has experience with royalty.”

Fitz’s vague reassurances do little to relieve the tightness in Jemma’s chest. She also can’t help but notice the way Fitz’s brow furrows when his eyes move up to meet her own.

“So where do we begin?” Jemma blurts, turning from Fitz to pace across the stage.

“First,” Hunter says, stepping in front of her. “We have to make sure you can act like a princess.”

“And _what_ exactly does that mean?” Jemma huffs, his answer providing little new information.

“If you act like a street sweeper, the dowager empress will surely-”

“He means you’ll need to know how to conduct yourself- stand, sit, walk, talk, even eat- like a princess should.”

“Where do we start?” Jemma asks, her eyes locking on Fitz’s steady stare.

-/-

The days following this feel like a whirlwind to Jemma. Each day she starts out with her turn at sweeping the streets- rising before dawn to check in at sunrise- before making her way to the Yusupov palace for her next round of princess training.

They start with her behavior- making her walk with books on her head, creating quite the sight, she is sure.

“You need to look- and feel- like you’re floating when you walk. The princess would have been taught poise and grace- her walk would be a far cry from your street stomping,” Hunter says matter of factly.

Jemma is able to take two steps before the books tumble to the ground. She can hear Hunter’s exasperated sigh as she picks them back up and returns them to their proper place. She takes another step; it is shaky but she manages to keep the books in place.

“Am I floating?” she asks him, the wobbling in her voice matching that of her feet as she takes another step.

“Like a… sinking boat,” Hunter sighs as Jemma takes another step and the books clatter to the floor. “Alright,” he continues, “try again.” His voice is softer but she can still hear his frustration. “If I can learn to do it, so can you.”

The behavior lessons take a few days; the walking lessons are followed by lessons on formal dining which are followed by dancing lessons- another disaster.

“I think I’m finally starting to get the hang of this whole floating thing,” Jemma says hesitantly, finally completing a successful circle around the room without losing the books. Hunter had insisted that she needed to review the previous day’s lesson.

“Great!” Hunter exclaims. “Now we move on to dancing.”

“Dancing?” Jemma asks, stopping suddenly.

“The princess knew how to dance by the time she was eight,” he replies. “Fitz, come over here.”

Fitz looks up from the notes he is making for her to stare at Hunter. “What…” he says, the look on his face one Jemma can only describe as confusion.

“You. Come here,” Hunter says again, gesturing between Fitz and where Jemma stands. “You’re going to dance with Jemma..”

Fitz slowly does as he is asked, crossing the room to stand a few feet from Jemma. Hunter steps behind Fitz and pushes him closer to Jemma before taking hold of his arms and putting them in position. Hunter then moves behind Jemma and places her hand in Fitz’s before gesturing to Fitz to go ahead and get started.

Jemma follows Fitz’s lead as he begins the slow steps of a dance she doesn’t remember. She looks down at their feet, tries to anticipate his next move, and she sees that he is hesitating almost as much as she is. She is pulled from her quiet observations when Fitz’s foot lands firmly on her own. She jumps at the pain and Fitz steps away from her.

“Oh come on, you two,” she hears Hunter say as she feels his hand on her back gently pushing her back towards Fitz.

Jemma steps forward and places her hand back atop Fitz’s and they begin the slow steps. This time, it is Jemma’s foot that lands squarely on his.

“You did that on purpose,” he exclaims, narrowing his eyes at her. She simply smiles in reply and returns to the pose she now knows is required for dancing. Fitz huffs and takes her hand for a third time, wasting no time before leading her around the floor.

This time as Jemma looks down at their feet, she doesn’t see him hesitate. He seems sure of his movements and she finds that she is able to follow him without looking down.

After a moment, she closes her eyes to immerse herself in the way she is feeling. When she opens them, she sees that Fitz’s face is no longer filled with frustration but with a look of satisfaction. She can feel her own expression changing to match his as they begin twirl around the floor faster and faster.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Fitz whispers to her as they continue to spin.

“Well I have a good teacher,” Jemma replies quickly before catching herself and covering her mouth with the hand that had been on his shoulder.

Fitz stops dancing at the movement and takes a small step away from her before bowing slightly. Jemma follows suit and curtsies low before lifting her head back up to find both men staring intensely at her.

“Where did she learn that?” Hunter asks, looking to Fitz for an answer.

“I didn’t teach her,” Fitz replies holding his hands up.

Jemma’s smile falters and her body tenses at the exchange and she wonders if she had done something wrong. But when Hunter turns back to her with a wide grin on his face, she lets out the breath she had been holding in.

“You’re a natural!” Hunter proclaims, finally putting Jemma at ease. “Well done, Your Highness,” he adds, bowing slightly.

After the behavior lessons come lessons on anyone the Grand Duchess Jennifer would have known- family members going back generations, members of court, even foreign nobles. The three of them spend days charting out the princess’ expansive family tree, Fitz and Hunter filling in Jemma on any details she might have to know about its members.

After three long days spent going over every minute detail, they are at it again as Fitz and Hunter quiz Jemma on the facts she should know.

“Where were you born?”

“Our palace by the sea. It was my mother’s favorite,” Jemma answers Fitz’s question with ease.

“And how old were you when you began to ride horseback?” Hunter asks, pacing in front of her.

“Three,” she answers again quickly.

“Good. Now on to something harder. Your great aunt Olga?” Hunter asks.

Jemma wracks her memory for what she knows about this particular family member. “She’s very short!” she exclaims after a moment, looking at him to confirm she is right.

“How short?” he asks instead.

“She stood on a stool during her wedding so as to look her groom in the eyes more easily,” Jemma said more confidently this time.

“Very good,” says Fitz. “What about your uncle Vanya? What is he known for?”

“Um…” Jemma says, closing her eyes as she tries to focus. She pictures the intricate family tree they had pieced together for her to study, tracing back from the princess to where she can see Vanya’s name. “He really liked his… vodka…” she says slowly, her previous confidence now gone.

“He’s Russian,” Hunter pushes. “Of course he likes vodka.”

“He drank a lot, even for a Russian. Mama thought he had a problem,” Jemma continues a little more loudly.

“Good,” Fitz says, his smile growing wider. “One more. What was special about Count Sergei?” he asks slowly, his eyes locked on hers.

She doesn’t have to think this time; she knows this fact. “He always wore a feathered hat!” she exclaims.

“Yes he did! And I’ve heard he’s gotten a bit fat,” Hunter muses.

“And I think I remember…” Jemma whispers slowly. “Didn’t he have a yellow cat?”

“How did you know that?” Fitz asks, jumping to his feet and moving toward her.

“I don’t know,” she says, her voice shaking slightly. “I just did.”

Fitz turns to look at Hunter who simply smiles wide in return before looking back at Jemma, his own smile matching Hunter’s.

-/-

Eight days after she agrees to work with Fitz and Hunter, Jemma sets out, as usual, for her shift sweeping and studies the streets in front of her. She still can’t see why they’ve bothered hiring street sweepers at all- the streets never get clean and it’s not like anyone would even care if they did. Everyone was used to the dirt, most of them live on the streets after all. Jemma watches as the streets begin to fill with people- the bread lines forming, the market stalls going back up.

One person stands out from the crowd, however, as Jemma watches the people around her. A man, dressed in what seems to be a soldier’s uniform, had been staring at her for too long to ignore. She tries to go about her work, keeping her head down, but she can still feel his eyes on her, a suspicion that is confirmed every time she looks back at him. But he doesn’t say a word to her until she begins to head back to turn in her broom.

“Excuse me, comrade,” the man says, stepping in front of her. “I need you to come with me. There’s someone that wants to talk to you.”

Jemma looks the man up and down- at first glance, he doesn’t seem intimidating but she has a feeling he is stronger than he looks. She tries to take a step around him but he catches her wrist and holds her in place.

“Fine,” Jemma says, fighting to keep her voice from shaking, as she follows him into the building across the street.

The building itself is unimposing but the inside has Jemma on edge. There are people everywhere, all dressed similarly to the man leading her through them, and the large room is very noisy, typewriters clanging incessantly Jemma looks around, her eyes darting from face to face, but few people look her way and no one meets her eyes. She continues to follow the man as he leads her through the maze of desks and people until they reach a small room at the back of the building. Inside, she can see another man standing behind the desk, his back to them and his eyes focused on the scene outside the large window on the far wall. The man beside her clears his throat causing the second man to turn toward them.

“Well hello there,” he says, his cheery tone is a stark contrast to their bland surroundings. “Please take a seat,” he adds, crossing the room to stand a few steps away from her.

Jemma keeps her feet firmly planted just inside the door. She looks behind her, hoping for any piece of support the man who brought her in could offer but she can’t see him anywhere.

“Oh dear, you’re shaking,” the man says as he steps even closer.

“I’m just, uh, a bit nervous,” Jemma mumbles, staring down at his shoes.

“I’m sorry about all that,” he says, his smile adding to the uneasiness beginning to settle in the pit of Jemma’s stomach. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want to talk.”

Something from the room behind her makes a loud noise and Jemma visibly jumps in response before freezing and clutching her broom tightly to her chest. She stays like this, her face to the floor and her breathing just a bit too fast, until she feels a hand come to rest on her arm. She jerks away from the sensation leaving his hand hanging in the air between them.

“Woah, woah,” the man says from beside her. “I didn’t mean to startle you further. But there’s no reason to be scared.”

At this, Jemma finally looks up at the man’s eyes. His eyes are strange, seeming as though they are filled at once with both fire and ice. Jemma takes another step away from the man.

“It was just one of the girls in the office, clumsy thing knocked the lamp off her desk.”

Jemma stays silent but she keeps her eyes locked on him, quickly looking him up and down. He is dressed in a soldier’s uniform like everyone else in the building, though his is somewhat more elaborate. He stands straight and stiff, holding himself in a way that is all too familiar to Jemma. It’s the one that tells her he thinks he’s better than she is.

“I have to go,” Jemma blurts out and tries to turn back toward the door, her gut telling her to run.

“Why do you always have to go so quickly?” the man says and Jemma can feel his hand land heavy on her shoulder.

“I can’t lose this job. They’re not easy to come by.” Jemma pauses, still studying the man. “And what exactly do you mean by _always_?”

“The name’s Ward. I’ve seen you around the streets before, working, talking with others, always moving quickly. I’ve also heard some rumors about you.”

Jemma shrugs his hand away and steps back again, finding herself backed against the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“I think you do,” Ward says, stepping close, too close. “Let me tell you a little more about myself,” he says, gesturing again to the chair in front of his desk.

Jemma sighs and sits down slowly on the edge of the chair, keeping a tight grip on her broom. He rests his weight against the edge of the desk so that he can face her.

“A lot of people, even people working here, don’t know that I lived in Yekaterinburg when the royal family was being held there. My father was even a Chekist guard stationed at Ipatiev House. I saw the children through the gates, woke up to the gunfire that night. I am one of a few people who truly know what happened to the royal family.”

Jemma slides back in her chair, putting as much space between Ward and herself as she can. “Look I don’t-,” Jemma says before he interrupts her.

“I’m telling you all of this as a warning,” Ward says, returning to his feet. “If you really were who you’re pretending to be, well… Let’s just say it would not be pretty.”

“I really need to go,” Jemma asserts again, rising to her feet and pushing past him toward the door.

“Be careful comrade,” she can hear him call after her. “Your eyes will give you away.”

Jemma rushes through the large room she had been led through earlier, holding tight to her broom and keeping her eyes locked on the door ahead of her. When she finally steps out into the sunlight, she leans against the side of the building and takes a series of deep breaths. She stays like this for more than a minute, her eyes closed and her head resting heavily against the wall behind her, forcing herself to feel the calm she knows she needs. She is surprised when she opens her eyes to find Fitz resting against the wall a few feet away.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice sharper than she really means for it to be, as she turns slightly to face him.

“Someone told me they’d brought you in,” he says as his only explanation.

Jemma pushes off the wall and takes a few steps away from Fitz. “That doesn’t really answer my question, you know?” she quips, still facing away from him.

“I wanted to make sure you were ok. Is that what you want to hear?” Fitz says, closing part of the space between them.

“Yes, actually,” Jemma huffs, spinning to meet his eyes again. “That would be nice,” she adds, her voice softening.

“Well in that case,” Fitz says, “let’s get you to a more friendly part of the city.” He gestures down the road that leads to the abandoned palace and falls into step as Jemma starts walking that way.

They walk alongside each other in silence, their eyes focused on the street in front of them. Jemma waits until they are out of sight of the government building before speaking again.

“We have to be more careful from now on,” Jemma whispers. “They know everything about us,” she continues, her words becoming louder and more rushed. “They know who we are, where we’re hiding out, what we’re doing.”

“Don’t worry, Jemma,” Fitz says, reaching out to rest his hand on her arm for just a moment before continuing in a whisper. “If they were going to arrest you, they would have done it then.”

“I’m not so sure-” Jemma frets before a new voice interrupts her. She doesn’t know the man’s face.

“Well if it isn’t Mr. Fitz himself,” the man says, moving to stand in front of the bench he had been sitting on.

“I thought you were living in Paris now,” another man says as he steps out of the quickly growing shadows into view. His words seem perfectly normal but his tone throws Jemma off guard.

“And who’s this?” the first man teases, eyeing Jemma. “Your girlfriend?”

She’s not my girlfriend,” Fitz asserts, keeping his eyes locked on the men as he steps between them and Jemma.

“If you don’t want her, Fitz, I’ll take her.” This voice belongs to a third man and Jemma spins as she hears him approaching behind her.

“Back off.” Jemma can hear Fitz talking to the first two men but she is distracted as the third man comes closer.

He comes close enough for Jemma to touch him but before she can decide what to do,he reaches down and grabs at her skirt, encouraging the already near boisterous laughter of the group. Jemma does not ignore this action but instead pushes her knee in the direction of the man’s stomach, knocking him breathless when she makes contact.

Everyone else turns to look at the sound but Jemma is focused as she pushes the man to the ground as hard as she can before turning her attention to the others to find that one of the other men has taken on Fitz. The last man seems to be waiting for her. She meets his intense gaze just before she grabs a stick from the ground so she can charge him with it. She makes it halfway to the man before he turns and runs the other way. Jemma can see that Fitz’s opponent has also fled, leaving only the third man. Jemma moves to charge him as well but she is stopped but Fitz’s surprisingly strong arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her just above the ground. Jemma lets out a small, surprised scream as her feet leave the ground that quickly turns to laughter as he releases her and she discovers that he is fighting back laughter of his own.

“Where did you learn that?” Fitz asks between loud laughs as they make their way down the street.

“I didn’t walk halfway across Russia without learning how to take care of myself,” Jemma replies.

“That makes two of us,” Fitz jokes, closing the distance she had put between them as he had recovered his composure.

They walk along silently for a few moments, neither of them quite sure what to say now before Jemma speaks again.

“There has to be more to life than just surviving it,” she sighs. All signs of sarcasm and joking have left her voice. Fitz can see her shoulders have fallen and her eyes are unfocused.

“Once upon a time, maybe,” Fitz sighs in return. He wants to believe that she’s right, that life is supposed to be better than living on the streets. But everything he’s experienced tells him she is very much mistaken. Well, almost everything… “It’s everyone for themselves now, Jemma,” he adds.

“Is that why you act so tough?” Jemma teases, stopping so she can look him in the eyes.

“I am tough,” Fitz asserts defensively.

“Right,” Jemma jabs, her smirk growing.

“You think I’d be standing here is I wasn’t?” Come on,” he says, grabbing her hand. “I want to show you something special.”

Jemma follows as Fitz pulls her down a path she had missed before. The path is dark, buildings towering over them on one side and trees coming up from the other to block out most of the moon’s light. She is grateful for his hand; without it, she would probably have lost him already. After what feels like an eternity to Jemma, they exit the tunnel of trees and she can see that they’ve ended up back in the center of the city.

“I had no idea the different parts of the city were connected like that,” she says as she looks around. She cannot help but notice that Fitz still has his hand wrapped firmly around her own but she doesn’t say anything.

“Most people don’t,” Fitz says, watching her with a smile.

“So was that what you wanted to show me?” Jemma asks gesturing back at the path.

“Not exactly,” he replies with a smirk that pulls just a bit at something inside Jemma. He finally releases her hand as he takes a few steps away before turning in small circles to look around the square. Once he spies what he is looking for, he gently taps Jemma on the shoulder.

“You see that little fruit stall over there?’ he asks pointing across the square as she turns around.

“Yes…” she says nervously, unsure of why he’s paying so much attention to it.

“It’s been there, in that spot, for as long as I can remember. In fact,” he adds with a small laugh, “it was the first place I stole from once I was on my own.”

Jemma can’t quite define the look on Fitz’s face; nostalgia, fondness, and even a hint of sadness all show on his face. She is curious about the past he hinted at but the tone in his voice makes her think he doesn’t want to talk about it and so she doesn’t ask.

“Come on,” Fitz says, grabbing her hand after a moment so he can drag her along as he runs across the square.

She follows him around most of the city and every time he stops, he lets slip pieces of his past; the walls he scaled running from the authorities, places her worked for scraps of food, various places he’d hidden out over the years. Jemma slowly begins to put them all together as they approach what, based on Fitz’s attitude, appears to be their final destination.

“And here we are,” he announces, throwing his arms out and stepping aside so she can see where they are.

“The park?” she questions slowly after looking around for a few moments. “Alright,” she sighs, “you’ve got me. What’s so special about the park?”

He doesn’t answer at first, fighting back a growing smile. “Turn around,” he finally says after a moment.

Jemma stares at him, confused, but his face gives her no further explanation and so she does as she is told. What she finds renders her speechless. She had not realized just how high above the city they had climbed as they wandered toward the park; they are high enough on the hill that they can see the whole of Petersburg.

“It’s beautiful,” Jemma says, her voice barely a whisper. “Is _this_ finally the special thing you wanted to show me?”

“Well yes and no,” Fitz replies slowly. "This is the most special of the things I showed you but they were all important, really. They all make up my Petersburg,” he finally explains as he leans against a nearby bench.

Jemma thinks about what Fitz said; she really had gotten to see _his_ Petersburg. Most people, she thinks, would have shown a newcomer a very different tour of the city: the palaces, the cathedral, the large city square. But he hadn’t done that; he had shown her Petersburg as only he knew it.

“My father used to bring me out here,” Fitz muses quietly as they stare out across the city. “He’d put me up on his shoulders and point to the farthest thing we could see. ‘Bet you can see all the way to Finland from up there, Leo,’ he’d say,”

“Leo?” Jemma asks, turning to look up at him.

“He was the only one that called me by my first name,” he replies, his gaze flitting to meet hers before returning to the scene in front of them. “He was an anarchist- he didn’t believe anyone was born better than anyone else. He died in a labor camp for his convictions,” he says, his voice only a whisper. “My mother was already gone.”

Jemma watches him as he tells his story; his eyes are looking at something far away, farther than Finland. “Who raised you?” she asks after a few silent moments.

“I told you,” he says, finally looking back at her. “I raised myself.”

“So neither of us has a family,” Jemma sighs.

“ _You_ don’t know that yet; the answer is in Paris,” Fitz assures her, placing his hand on top of hers where it rests on the arm of the bench. “What’s that across the river?” he asks, pointing to a large building just on the other side of the water.

“The Fortress of Saints Peter and Paul,” Jemma fires off.

“How many tsars are buried there?” Fitz asks.

“I don’t want to do this tonight,” Jemma sighs.

“What do you want to do?” Fitz says softly, moving to her other side and sitting on the bench.

Jemma sighs. _What does she want to do?_ “I want… to be someone who belongs to someone, someone who knows who they are.”

“Convince the Dowager Empress and you will!” Jemma says nothing in response to his attempt at encouragement and so he continues their earlier conversation. “Tell me about the little dog.”

“His name was Puka,” she huffs.

“Go on.”

“I loved him so much,” she whispers, her voice shaking at the flashes she feels fighting to be seen.

“Don’t stop,” Fitz says, his voice becoming a bit softer. He watches her- the slow deep breaths that move her whole body, her distant stare, the way she is wringing her hands ever so slightly.

“I’m not as strong as you think I am,” she sighs after a while, her eyes focusing only on her feet below her.

“You’re very strong.” He cannot stop the laugh that follows the statement. The thought that the woman in front of him is anything but strong is not something he can believe.

“Not like you,” she says turning to look up at him.

“Then I’ll be strong for both of us for now,” he says softly, bringing a small smile to her face. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” she huffs leaning back against the bench.

“Just do it,” he says and she does as he asks. “Now put your hand out.”

Jemma slowly stretches her hand out in the space between them and she can hear the sound of Fitz searching through his bag for a moment before she feels him place something small in her hand.

“Go ahead and open your eyes,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”

She opens her eyes to see a small, decorated box resting in her palm. It is mostly covered in gold, bright green and red jewels glittering as they come together to create breathtaking flowers. The trinket tugs at Jemma’s heart and her hand flies to the pendant hanging from her neck.

“It’s beautiful,” she says as she pulls her necklace out from beneath her coat.

“It’s broken,” he laughs, “I can’t even open it.”

“It’s not broken,” she says, turning back to him with a wide smile filling her face. “It’s just protected.”

His eyes narrow as he studies her face before turning to study the music box. He watches as she plays with her necklace a moment before bringing it down to meet the music box in her other hand. She carefully places the pendant in a small hole in the bottom of the box and turns it. After a few clicks, the box pops open and he can see a tiny pair of dancers twirling before a small, ornate painting as a simple melody begins to play.

“How did you do that?” Fitz asks but Jemma is transfixed by the music box. “Jemma?”

Jemma’s eyes do not leave the pair of tiny dancers as she begins to hum along to the melody coming from the box before quietly beginning to sing.

“ _Dancing bears, painted wings_

_Things I almost remember_

_And a song someone sings_

_Once upon a December_

_Someone holds me safe and warm_

_Horses prance through a silver storm_

_Figures dancing gracefully_

_Across my memory_

_Far away, long ago_

_Glowing dim as an ember_

_Things my heart used to know_

_Once upon a December_ ”

Jemma slowly closes the lid of the music box as the melody comes to an end. They both sit silently for what feels like days before Jemma finally speaks again.

“How soon do you think we can leave?” she asks as if ignoring the last several minutes. “They’re canceling trains right and left. Here,” she says digging into her coat pocket. “I worked an extra shift this week. It’s not much but it has to help.” She looks up at him expecting to see relief or joy on his face but instead finds disappointment.

“We’re not even close, Jemma,” Fitz sighs, looking away.

“What are you saying?” she pushes back.

“I thought I could get you out before they closed the borders-”

“You were the only hope I had-”

“There must be someone else who can help-”

“I don’t want your money!” she says pushing his hand away as he tries to give back the money she had just offered him.

“It’s your money,” he replies, pushing back with equal force.

“It’s _our_ money! I trusted you,” she asserts, her voice growing sharper.

“I said I was sorry!”

“But perhaps I didn’t trust you enough,” she says more softly. “Now you close your eyes.”

“What for?” he says, moving away from her slightly.

“You’re the stubbornest person I’ve ever met,” she sighs, “almost as stubborn as me. Put your hand out,” she adds repeating his earlier instructions. “Alright, open,” she adds after a moment.

He opens his eyes and what he finds shocks him. “It’s a diamond,” he exhales in surprise.

“A nurse at the hospital found it sewn in my underclothes and, for some reason I still don’t know, she kept it hidden for me until it was time for me to leave. She told me to keep it a secret until I was sure I could really trust someone.”

“You’ve had this all along without telling me?” Fitz asks, quickly pushing himself to his feet. “Why?”

“It’s the only thing I have,” she asserts rising to her feet to face him. “Without it I have nothing.”

“How do you know I won’t take it now and you’ll never see me again?” he asks taking a small step forward.

“I don’t think you will,” she replies, mirroring his movement.

“If you weren’t-” he starts before closing the distance between them and encompassing her in a tight embrace.

“Disaster!” comes a voice from behind them and they both turn to find Hunter racing toward them. “The Yusupov palace has been raided! We’re done for if we go back there!” he exclaims. “Mother of Moses!” he shouts a moment later as he finally sees the diamond in Jemma’s hand.

“She’s had it all along,” Fitz reveals stepping around the bench and moving toward Hunter.

“I didn’t trust either of you with it,” Jemma adds, following Fitz.

“I don’t blame you,” Hunter says calmly before continuing, his voice more full of joy. “But nevermind, all is forgiven. I love you, Jemma,” he shouts wrapping his arms around her before lifting her off the ground in his enthusiasm.

“Can I trust you to get the exit papers?” Fitz asks, placing his hand on Hunter’s arm as he returns Jemma to the ground.

“I talked my way into two coronations, Nicholas’ and his father’s!” Hunter exclaims turning to leave the park. “I think I can manage exit papers!”

“There’s a train leaving early tomorrow from Finland Station,” Jemma says, making her way toward the park’s gate.

“I’m going to Paris on a train,” Fitz muses. “I’m going to sleep in a hotel… and take a bath!” he adds excitedly as he turns to follow Jemma so they can prepare for the journey ahead of them.


	4. Chapter 3: Stay I Pray You

The sky is still dark and the streets are still quiet as they make their way to the train station the next morning. They cross the city quickly, careful to keep from drawing attention.

The station is crowded when they arrive- a stark contrast to the streets they have just left- and Jemma struggles to keep up as Hunter leads them through the mobs. She stumbles as a tall man pushes past her. As she looks back at the man, her eyes lock onto his as they stare back at her.

“Who was that?” she asks no one in particular once he looks away.

“ _That_ was Count Ipolitov,” Hunter whispers helping her off the ground. “An aristocrat and an intellectual…” he muses, “a dead man on both counts now.”

Jemma turns back again but the man is gone now so she follows as Hunter leads them through the crowded station to the ticket window and then outside to the platform.

The platform is quieter than the main room despite being just as crowded. People stand all around, their bags sitting at their feet, as they wait for the call to board. Jemma looks at the people around her- their clothes elaborate but threadbare, their faces all downcast- a young boy is the only one who meets her eyes. The people around her seem to almost embody the ache she feels deep inside her heart.

Jemma is pulled from her revery as someone grabs hold of her hand and she looks down to find Count Ipolitov kneeling in front of her.

“May God bless you,” he says quietly before quickly placing a soft kiss on the back of her hand and once again leaving.

Jemma looks between Fitz and Hunter, her blank expression matching theirs, as they are all stunned into silence. As they stand there staring, the train in front of them lets out a loud whistle and the conductor calls out to let them know they will soon be able to board.

Jemma slowly takes in the scene around her. Soon all of it- all of Russia- will be just a memory. Her life is about to change forever.

As the train’s whistle lets out another loud cry, Jemma can hear someone begin to sing.

“ _How can I desert you, how to tell you why_

_Coachman hold the horses_

_Stay, I pray you_

_Let me have a moment, let me say goodbye_

_To bridge and river, forest and waterfall, orchard, sea, and sky_

_Harsh and sweet and bitter to leave it all_

_I’ll bless my homeland til I die._ ”

At first, the melody is foreign to her but as it goes on, Jemma finds herself humming along as the first voice sings.

“ _How to break the tie_

_We have shed our tears and shared our sorrows_

_Though the stars remain and tears will never die_

_I’ll bless my homeland til I die.”_

As more people join in the song, Jemma finally remembers how she knows the tune- it is one she learned from one of the newer nurses at the hospital who had moved from the disintegrated capital just before Jemma had set out on her own. She had hummed the simple tune to herself often as she cared for the younger children but she rarely sang the words. But as their fellow travelers continue to sing, they reach a part that Jemma knows and she begins to sing along.

“ _Never to return, finally breaking free_

_You are all I know; you have raised me_

_How to turn away, how to close the door_

_How to go where I have never gone before?”_

Hunter and Fitz look over at Jemma, studying her as she sings. Jemma pays them little attention, looking around the station at everything she is about to leave behind instead.

The sorrowful melody is cut off with another loud whistle from the train and a shout of “last call to board for the train to Paris” from the uniformed man next to it.

“We’d better go,” Hunter whispers, his eyes never breaking away from the many men in soldiers uniforms that surround them.

Jemma looks around as they board the train. Somehow, there seem to be even more people in the small cabin than there had been on the platform. Jemma begins to make her way into the crowded space but stops when she feels a hand rest gently against her back.

“Over here,” Fitz explains- his voice barely audible above the commotion of the other passengers- when she turns to see he is pointing down a narrow, door-lined hallway.

“We have a private compartment?” Jemma asks following Fitz inside one of the small rooms off the hallway.

‘Hunter thought it would be best considering…” Fitz trails off.

“And I was right,” Hunter exclaims from behind them. “The incident in the station has me a little worried,” he is whispering now as he turns to close the compartment door behind them. “We need to get across the Russian border without any more problems. And besides,” he huffs as he throws his bag onto the rack above one of the room’s benches. “I _paid_ for first class room but I had to fight for them to let us in _here_ as it was,” he finishes.

“Why are you surprised?” Fitz huffs falling to the bench opposite Hunter. “There is no more first class in Russia; everyone is equal now.”

“You’re going to hate Paris,” Hunter quips. “There are no greater snobs than the French.”

“Speaking of Paris,” Fitz says ignoring the joke. “Getting there is only part of the battle. You’ll still have to convince the people there that you are the Grand Duchess.”

“Your first challenge will be to convince the Dowager Empress’ sole confidant, the Countess Barbara Morse,” Hunter adds, his smile widening despite the seriousness of the conversation. “No one has access to Her Majesty without her.”

“She sounds like a dragon,” Fitz laughs.

“Oh quite the opposite,” Hunter replies. “Bobbi was beautiful, spirited, married- everything I look for in a woman. She gave me a watch studded with diamonds.”

“Did you love her?” Jemma asks eagerly.

“Oh, that’s all women care about,” Fitz gripes.

“Madly, darling,” Hunter sighs.

“That’s so sweet.”

“But… I loved the watch more,” Hunter adds with a soft chuckle.

“Men are terrible,” Jemma groans, slumping back into the bench.

“I hope Bobbi’s happy to see me,” Hunter muses looking out the window at the quickly passing scenery.

The compartment falls silent after Hunter speaks, the only sounds coming from the churning wheels beneath their feet as they grind against the tracks.

Jemma recalls the princess’ complicated family tree, picturing it in her mind, and attempts to fill in all of the blanks from memory. _Oh what a mess,_ she thinks as she struggles to remember the names of all of the princess’ cousins. _I can’t even study without getting so nervous that my hands shake._ She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, sighing when she opens them to find her hands still shaking.

She looks up to see that Hunter has already fallen asleep and Fitz is staring out the window, his shoulders tense and his foot shaking. She studies him a moment longer but is pulled from her observation as the train lurches to a sudden halt.

“What was _that_?” Hunter huffs as he pushes himself off the floor.

“We stopped moving,” Jemma whispers, her voice shaking.

“Something’s wrong,” Fitz muses, his eyes locked on something beyond the window, just a moment before a knock sounds from the other side of the compartment door.

Fitz’s eyes flick to Jemma before locking onto Hunter’s. He watches as Hunter slowly takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders before stepping toward the door.

“Papers,” is all the soldier on the other side says igniting fear deep inside Fitz.

“What’s the problem?” Hunter asks trying to block the soldier’s view inside the cabin.

“We’re looking for someone who is illegally leaving the country.”

“Didn’t have the right papers, huh?” Hunter jokes, his body still tense.

“He had the right papers. He had the wrong name- Count Ipolitov,” the soldier huffs.

Hunter can hear a small gasp from behind him followed by the sound of Fitz trying to hush Jemma.

“Your papers…?” the soldier repeats gruffly.

“We will need a few moments,” Hunter sputters. “We have put them away.”

The soldier looks intently between the three of them before speaking again. “Make it quick, comrade. I will return shortly.” He clomps off without waiting for a reply and Hunter rushes to close the door behind him.

“Our papers are right here, Hunter,” Fitz says holding up their passports.

“I _know_ ,” Hunter replies, his glare adding a silent _I’m not stupid._ “I just wanted to give us time to-”

He is interrupted as a shot sounds from outside the train.

Jemma shrieks at the sound and turns to hide her face in the cushion behind her.

“I’ll go see what happened,” Hunter says, reaching blindly for the door handle behind him.

“We _know_ what happened,” Fitz whispers harshly.

“And calm her down,” Hunter directs motioning toward Jemma. “Any tears will betray us.”

The door clangs shut as Hunter exits quickly and Fitz turns back to Jemma. “Shh,” he soothes unconvincingly, “everything is going to be alright.”

Jemma does not respond, curled against the back of the bench letting the cushion muffle her sobs and gasps for air.

Fitz slowly moves to sit beside her and takes a slow breath before resting his hand softly on hers. “We’ll be safe soon,” he whispers as he rubs calming circles across the back of her hand with his thumb.

“That’s what the soldiers said when they were pointing their guns at us,” Jemma asserts, her face still hidden against the bench.

“What soldiers?” he asks quietly. “No one is pointing their guns at you,” he adds as Jemma finally turns to face him.

“They said they were taking us somewhere safe,” she says, her body is facing him but her eyes are locked on something much farther away. “Puka’s little heart was pounding against my chest as I held him tight. ‘They’re decent men,’ I told him. ‘They won’t harm us.’”

“What are you talking about?” Fitz asks, tightening his grip on her hand. “You’re taking this too far.”

“If I am really her-” Jemma cries before Fitz covers her mouth with his hand to silence her.

“Shh,” he says more harshly this time. “You have to be more careful than that,” he adds, his voice softening as her eyes finally meet his and he can see the fear they hold. “We’re almost out of Russia,” he whispers, returning his hand to its former place on top of hers. “Once we’re across the border, we’ll be safe.”

Jemma slowly closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before looking back at Fitz.

“Better?” he asks nervously and she gently nods her head in reply before they both settle back into the cushions.

“Who do you think I am, Fitz?” Jemma asks quietly after a moment.

“I don’t know,” he says shaking his head and avoiding her gaze.

“You put these ideas in my head,” Jemma sighs, “and I’m beginning to think they might be true.”

At this moment, the door flies open and Hunter bursts into the compartment. “What color are our passports?” he cries as he closes the door behind him.

“White…” Fitz replies, pulling them from his pocket.

“They’re taking people with white passports off the train and shooting them!” Hunter exclaims causing Jemma and Fitz to freeze. “When I make a mistake, it’s a big one,” he jokes dryly.

“We have to get off this train,” Fitz instructs.

“Well we can’t go that way,” Hunter says pointing to the door behind him.

“The window it is, then,” Fitz sighs before looking at Jemma.

“Let’s go,” she says.

Fitz carefully pushes the window open as Hunter and Jemma pull their luggage from the racks.

As Fitz moves to help Jemma climb out, they feel the train engines come back to life.

“Guess we’d better move quickly,” Fitz laughs as he gives Jemma a hand up. Jemma jumps out and Hunter follows as the train begins to move. Fitz quickly throws their bags out before pulling himself out behind them.

He lands squarely on his shoulder, the thick snow doing little to cushion his fall and he simply lays on the ground- the cold quickly seeping into his bones- before he pushes himself to his feet. As he attempts to brush the snow from his clothes, he looks around for Jemma and Hunter who he finds to be doing the same a little ways down the tracks.

“Well, what now?” Fitz asks, glaring at Hunter.

“We walk,” Jemma replies instead, shrugging her shoulders before leaning down to pick up one of their bags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that is sung in this chapter is taken straight from the broadway-bound musical because I fell in love with it and I needed to have it in this fic. If you want to hear it, you can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOu90ZhHNaA


	5. Chapter 4: Crossing a Bridge

Jemma gazes through the settling fog at the city around her—the ornate buildings, the lights, the people. Turning to look behind her, she can see Fitz and Hunter through the front window of the hotel they had found and in front of her stretches a winding network of roads. She knows which one she needs to take to reach her destination—the hotel clerk had told her that much—but as she stares down the small street, she is frozen in place. 

She looks behind her once more to see that her companions have left the lobby and she knows this is her chance if she wants to go alone. She sighs before squaring her shoulders and stepping off the sidewalk.

-/-

There it is—she can see the Alexander Bridge, named after the princess’s grandfather. Something had pulled at her when she saw the bridge among the many crisscrossing streets on the map on the hotel’s wall. Each step closer to this place brought with it a greater sense that she might not actually be simply pretending to be the lost princess. And now that she is standing here looking at the bridge dedicated to the princess’ grandfather, something deep inside her tells her that, even if none of this ends up working out like they’ve planned, she made the right choice when she decided to work with Fitz.

She leans against the railing of the bridge and watches as the sun sets and the stars begin to appear in the sky.

“I guess this is it…” she sighs. “No turning back now.” Her thoughts continue to drift.  _ Maybe they’re out there… maybe I do have a family somewhere in this city…  _

She watches the stars, marveling at their certainty and consistency, losing track of how long she is there. 

“Jemma!” Fitz calls, pulling her out of her thoughts. “How long have you been here?”

Jemma blinks as she focuses again on her surroundings. As her vision clears, she sees Fitz running toward her across the bridge. “I’m not sure,” she replies, turning to meet his eyes. “How did you find me? I didn’t tell you where I’d be.”

“I had a feeling you would want to see the bridge,” he replies when he reaches her. “But Hunter pulled me into this argument with the hotel manager and when I looked up, you were gone and—”

“I’m not really sure why I wanted to come here,” Jemma muses, interrupting his rambling, “but I just felt like something inside me had been needing to see it for a long time.”

“Oh, I think we both know what that was,” Fitz reassures her. 

_ The Princess’s family, her past. Jemma’s past. _

“Are you ready to go? Hunter went ahead to meet with the empress’s lady-in-waiting and I told him we would follow soon.”

“Do you think I’m ready?” Jemma asks quietly.

“I know you are,” Fitz soothes, placing his hand atop where hers rests on the wall.

“Then…” Jemma sighs. “Let’s go.”

-/-

“Well, hello there, Bobbi,” Hunter says, stepping up behind the one woman he could pick out of any crowd. She turns around and Hunter’s face is immediately overtaken by a smile.

“I thought you were supposed to be dead,” Bobbi replies bluntly, looking him over.

“Oh, you know me, able to charm myself out of any scrape,” Hunter jokes. “Even a firing squad.”

Bobbi turns to walk back into the building they are standing before but Hunter reaches out for her hand to stop her.

“Come on, Bobbi,” Hunter says, gently pulling her closer to him again. “You know you’re happy to see me.”

“I suppose I’m glad you’re not dead,” Bobbi says before freeing her hand from his grasp. “What are you even doing in Paris?” She takes a few steps down the sidewalk and takes a seat on a small bench.

“Did you not get my letter?” Hunter asks, moving to sit beside her.

“Oh, I did,” Bobbi answers with a smug smile. “And I promptly threw it out.”

“Fair enough,” Hunter laughs dryly. They sit in heavy silence, neither sure what to say now.

After what seems like an eternity, Bobbi moves to push herself off the bench but stops when Hunter’s hand catches her elbow. 

“I know you’re still mad at me Bobbi,” Hunter starts when she looks over at him, her eyes narrowed. “But just hear me out. There’s someone you’re going to want to meet.”

“Oh?” Bobbi asks. “And who might that be?”

-/-

“How did the princess feel about stroganoff?” Bobbi asks, the latest in her long list of questions surprising Jemma.

“I hated it,” Jemma huffs. “I was so glad when mother finally stopped making me eat it.”

Jemma glances over at Fitz who flashes her a reassuring smile before once again returning her attention to her hands where they sit in her lap in tight fists.

“Hmm…” Bobbi muses quietly to herself. “I have one more question for you,  _ Jemma _ ,” she continues, her skepticism still quite evident in the way she says Jemma’s name. “How did you escape the palace when the Bolsheviks attacked?”

Jemma stares at the woman across from her who raises her eyebrows as if to say ‘I knew it, she’s a fake’.

Jemma closes her eyes and takes a deep breath even as she hears a ragged sigh from where Fitz is leaning against the wall. She searches through the faint flashes of could-be-memories that have haunted her, sorting through the screams, the fire, the fear, looking for an answer. And then she sees a face—a young boy in simple clothes with his curly hair a mess.

“There was a young boy,” Jemma whispers slowly. “I think he worked at the palace, or his mother did. I don’t remember. But he opened up a hole in the wall of the music room. There was a tunnel behind it that he pulled me into. It led to somewhere just outside the palace walls.” Jemma opens her eyes now to see that Bobbi’s scowl has been replaced by a hesitant smile matching the ones she sees forming on both Fitz and Hunter’s faces. 

“You did it,” Fitz mouths and Jemma releases the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in.

Jemma turns her attention back to the blonde woman across from her, staring as she reviews the notes in front of her.

“You’ve convinced me,” she says finally. “I wish I could tell you that was enough,” she adds with a sigh. “The Dowager Empress has forbidden me from bringing her anymore princess want-to-bes. She has been hurt too many times.”

“If you knew that, Bobbi, why did you agree to see her?” Hunter accuses.

“Because I have a plan,” she replies, pulling something from her handbag. “You’ll need these tickets to the ballet for tomorrow night.”

-/-

Jemma jolts awake screaming, her eyes darting around as she tries to remember where she is. Slowly, her eyes adjust to the darkness around her and she can see the small bed, table, and chair that furnish her meager hotel room. 

“Jemma, are you alright?” She looks up at the words to see Fitz rushing through the door connecting their rooms.

“The voices keep coming back,” she whispers as he moves to sit beside her.

“It’s just a nightmare,” he says softly, taking her hand.

Jemma looks down at their joined hands, taking a deep breath as she watches his thumb rub slow circles across the back of her hand.

“I’m scared,” she says even quieter than before. “Who do you think I am, Fitz?” she asks without looking up.

“Well,” he starts, “if I were the Dowager Empress, I would want you to be Jennifer.”

Jemma finally meets his eyes, wanting to see if he really believed what he is saying, and sees no hint of doubt as he continues.

“I would want her to be a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman like you.” He looks down as he says the last words, a slight blush forming on his cheeks.

“Is that what you think I am?” Jemma asks.

“Of course I do,” he replies quickly. 

They sit in silence a few moments, his words hanging in the air between them.

“I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to say anything nice to me,” Jemma says breaking the silence, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Fitz.

“Do you  _ really _ think I could be the Grand Duchess?” Jemma asks quietly.

“I’d like to think you’re that wonderful girl I saw all those years ago,” he sighs.

Jemma stares at him confused and he continues.

“I’ll never forget this one day when I was ten. It was June and the Tsar’s family was leaving to spend time with the Dowager Empress at the palace in Livadiya. Despite the growing heat of the summer, they turned their departure into a parade and I was able to see them. The Grand Duchess was just eight then, but she looked as much an empress as her mother beside her. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I pushed through the crowds to get a better view and called out her name when they stopped for people in the road. She looked down at me and smiled. I knew then that I wanted to see her again.”

“The way you tell the story, it feels like I was there too,” Jemma sighs when he pauses.

“Maybe you were,” he laughs. “Make it part of your story.”

He motions for her to go on and tell her version, so she takes a deep breath.

“We were riding in a parade on the way out of town when a boy in the crowd caught my eye. He was thin and, well...” she pauses and laughs, “not too clean. There were guards all around but he pushed through them as we were stopped for a moment. He called out my name and though I did my best not to smile at him, I couldn’t help myself. And just before we started to move again, he bowed...” she trails off.

“I didn’t tell you that,” Fitz declares.

“You didn’t have to,” Jemma whispers, meeting his eyes. “I remembered.”

They fall silent at this revelation and Jemma closes her eyes, trying to remember more.

“You worked at the palace,” she finally says, her voice barely a whisper. “Your mother had worked there and when she died, they let you keep working in the kitchen. You were the boy who opened the door in the wall when the soldiers attacked!” The last words come out louder as her memories grow clearer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She opens her eyes to find Fitz is no longer sitting beside her but is now kneeling in front of her. She cannot see his face, just his sleep-tousled curls, and she is thankful knowing it means he cannot see hers—stuck somewhere between shock and despair as she knows their time together will soon be over. 

“Your Highness,” he says slowly, still not meeting her eyes.

“Fitz,” she whispers. “Look at me.”

Instead, Fitz stands quickly, avoiding her gaze, and retreats through the connecting door leaving Jemma alone again with her thoughts of the young boy from the streets and the man she had come to know.

-/-

The lights in the theater slowly come back to life and Jemma once again turns her gaze to the private box across from where she sits next to Fitz. She watches as Bobbi talks with the Dowager Empress and she can see that the younger woman is nervous. 

_ What if she doesn’t believe me? What if she does? _

Jemma looks away as the same quiet panic begins to take hold of her. Her eyes land on her lap where Fitz’s hand is still holding her own. He had reached for it in the middle of the show when her nervous fidgeting and playing with her program had become distracting, but he had not pulled it back even after she calmed down. 

“It’s time,” he whispers, pulling her attention once again. His smile is soft and she finds that her movements are steady when she stands to follow him and Hunter toward the private box where soon they would find out if their plan had worked.

The room outside the private boxes is empty, their inhabitants either already gone or settled in for one last drink. They stop, unsure which door leads to the Empress’s box.

“Now we just have to wait for Bobbi,” Fitz says quietly, pacing the length of the room as Hunter settles into a chair next to one of the doors.

Jemma remains where she stands just inside the room, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to slow her sprinting heart even as her mind races faster.  _ You can do this, Jemma.  _ She repeats the words in her head a few times as she listens to the steady rhythm of Fitz’s steps back and forth.  _ You can do _ —

Her thoughts are interrupted as one of the doors leading to the boxes flies open, the soft sounds of the remaining audience members echoing through the sparse room. 

“Of course, Your Majesty. I shall be right back with their best bottle of champagne.” Jemma recognizes the voice right away, Bobbi. “I still cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” she is whispering roughly when Jemma opens her eyes to find Hunter standing and attempting to reassure Bobbi. 

“Look at her, Bobbi,” Fitz says over their whispered argument, gesturing toward Jemma.

Bobbi gasps when she sees Jemma—her sparkling blue gown and delicate curls have transformed the former urchin into the perfect picture of a princess. “Your Highness,” Bobbi whispers, curtsying.

“No, no you really shouldn’t,” Jemma cries, rushing forward to meet her still downcast eyes. 

“We did a good job, Fitz,” Hunter whispers.

“You will announce the Grand Duchess Jennifer Simmons,” Fitz says to Bobbi, ignoring Hunter.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Bobbie whispers, placing her hand reassuringly on Jemma’s shoulder.

“I’m ready,” she replies, all the while keeping her eyes locked with Fitz’s.

“We’ll celebrate afterward on your grandfather’s bridge,” he promises as she turns to follow Bobbi back through the door.

-/-

Fitz watches as the door closes behind her, staring a moment before turning to pace the length of the room once again. 

“Worried already?” Hunter laughs, leaning against the wall.

“I wonder what they’re saying, how she’s doing,” Fitz replies, his eyes darting back to the door to the Empress’s box before he reaches the wall and he turns again.

“Okay, I can’t take this anymore,” Hunter exclaims after a moment. “Tell Bobbi I needed a drink.” He pushes off the wall and all but runs back toward the lobby.

“It’s so quiet in here,” Fitz whispers when he can no longer hear Hunter’s footsteps.  _ Is it good or bad that I can’t hear anything from inside?  _ He can’t bring himself to voice the question, knowing the answer was most likely not what he hoped it would be. “No. It will work. She’ll finally have her family and I’ll get...” he trails off, the realization stopping him in his tracks.  _ Money. She’ll have her family and I’ll have the money I need. All I lose is _ —

He doesn’t finish this thought, the Empress’s door bursting open beside him. 

He turns, hoping to find a beaming princess but instead finds the scared, hurt young woman he met months ago barely holding back tears.

“What happened?” he cries, crossing the room to stand in front of her.

“She wouldn’t even look at me,” Jemma replies, a single tear escaping down her cheek. “‘Tell this imposter I know her kind, Bobbi. She wants money and would break an old woman’s heart to get it.’”

“I’ll tell her the truth!” Fitz replies, indignantly, moving to open the door behind Jemma. 

“What?” Jemma asks, grabbing his arm before he can reach the door handle. “That I was a pawn in your scheme? That you made me think I was someone I never was or ever could be? I was cold, and hungry, and desperate when I met you, Fitz, but I was  _ not _ dishonest. I hate you for that!” Jemma pushes past him and moves quickly toward the exit.

“Jemma, wait!” Fitz calls as she turns the corner, the sound of her footsteps quickly disappearing.


End file.
